The lights slowly dimmed and the room became darker, the air more dense.At the same time I noticed my breathing I became aware of a rhythm of light pulsating in a downward motion from above me - fanning out around the room like a funnel - I relaxed. It became dark, intervals of warm waves of energy began passing over me.

I closed my eyes.

As each transient ring of energy flowed over me, I opened wider and wider from head to toe.
All my senses felt the broadening too – It was like I had become a balloon without skin, filling with air.

I began to hover as if
nothing was below me.
I looked around and
saw nothing below me.

Not the chair I was sitting in or the floor beneath - nothing was there. My senses were keen yet I had no question of rational.

I knew then I had entered the second attention.

(As Spirit enters, it comes as a vibrational match. One must defer a portion
of self for the communication to occur - it is a partnership subject to the Spirits
and one’s ability to merge within a required frequency.)

As the Spirit spoke, all doubts of name and form disappeared. I had the vision of an elder Native man. The sunned weather-worn appearance of his strongly wrinkled face glowed even in the shadows of his long salt and pepper hair - draped and braided over his large muscular shoulders. Wrapped in a robe of Elk, painted with the sun and decorated with red, black and yellow Porcupine quills, the elder warrior sat upon an old painted horse – his hands were wrapped around a bundle. Beads of all the colors of the rainbow hung from his neck, and ears.
A single Spotted Eagle feather hung from
the side of his head.

I greeted the Spirit, he greeted me.

Upon announcing his name, he lifted the bundle in his hands to the sky world. He spoke, and although I did not understand his words, their meaning completely illuminated my inner being. At the same time, a great radiance of compassion cast from above engulfed us within a web of sprightly shards of light.

I detected the fragments of light as living energy with an eternal rhythm, pulsating through us. By now I could see parallel needle like fields of light recurring all around me. As if each was a grid overlapping the other, -staggered, stacked, stretching east to west, up and down in every direction. And we, the Elder Spirit and I, were not separate from this scene. Every detail of what I had observed, knowingly, was a part of me.

(The Elder sang a song. I knew it was a power song). As he sang, a glowing disc-like ball appeared around my left side from behind me. I felt the lights trajectory deep within me as it trailed an arc from my left shoulder blade and came to rest upon a single location ahead of me.
“Awareness”,

I heard the Elder say.
It was my
assembled awareness.

From this assembled position I would understand-as the awareness shifts, it comprehends the encounter with the un-known. (In the flash of a moment, I thought about the current state of our country). I thought it odd, but I did.

Suddenly I heard the familiar “POP”, my eyes opened and I was in my living room chair. The lights were on. I was both refreshed and exhausted . Somewhat dazed, I closed my eyes and immediately recalled the Elders advice.

“Nothing might temper the spirit of a
nation as much as the challenge of dealing with
impossible people in positions of power.
If you face the uncertainty with impunity,
you will acquire the strength to withstand
even the incomprehensible.
And for this, peace will guide your way
- then you shall know how to proceed”.

How American
Literature Happens

by Gabrial Orgrease

In the cemetery the tall guy told us he had written a letter to his governor to suggest that he might want to go for a walk in the cemetery. It being a somewhat old and fine cemetery surrounded by highway, a bubbly crick, poison ivy, a cigar bar, and an old house that won’t let anybody in to see it’s basement. Something went on about how his father walked somewhere with the governor’s father. How he knew the governor’s wife likes to go for walks. How his children like to go for walks. (go to story)

Dear Editorby Franklin Crawford

Since I don’t really have anything to tell you, let me mention some things that happened on Sunday, August 20, 2017. I was dropping off a bag of used clothes at The Thrifty Store where even rich people shop for twenty-five cent shirts. Slumming it is big now and everybody loves a bargain. The place was closed and management prefers folks to not drop off donations on Sunday but people do anyway. Which makes it a good day for poor folks to get something they can afford, namely, something free. (Go to Story)

Inspiration at the
Traffic Light

by Georgia E. Warren

I have read poetry, novels, books that have inspired me, and listened to music that makes my breathing uneven.I hae seen art so powerful that I had to put my hand on a wall to keep from being dizzy (page #2 of this magazine). There is, however, only one time I felt something that came from inside of me; an idea so fully formed I could not escape it. A vision that would not fade. (go to article)

Reiki: Just The Facts Part XIV:
Bringing Spirit In

by Don Brennan

Inspiration is the process of clearing ourselves and bringing in wisdom, guidance, divine revelation, healing energy, or the sacred breath from Spirit. Call it channeling one’s muse, if you like. It is the process of connecting with the divine, getting our human selves out of the way, and allowing Spirit to move through us. (go to article)

POETRY

Our Poetry section includes some of our favorite poets, click on ther names to bring yourself to special inspiring poems:

In Service to
the Muse

by Robert Graves

Excerpt from:
The Atlantic, June 1961
The original significance of this word has long been blurred by dishonest or facetious usage. The Muse, or Mountain Mother, whom the preclassical Greeks worshiped on Parnassus and other sacred peaks, seems to have inspired the poet in much the same sense as the loa gods of Haiti now “ride” their devotees. And, although by Homer’s time her invocation had become a mere formality, subservice to the Muse has ever since been avowed by counterfeit poets in the service of politics, learning, or the church. True possession has occurred sporadically down the centuries as a phenomenon that can neither be provoked or foreseen. (go to entire article)

Forward to
The Muses

by David Rollow

The nine Muses are the offspring of Zeus and Mnemosyne, the Goddess of Memory. Before the invasion of the Olympian gods, the Muses, goddesses or guardian nymphs of springs and groves, tutelary spirits, belonged to a preliterate, oral culture. The original three are the daughters of Mnemosyne, memory, although they were raised by a wetnurse or foster-mother, Eupheme. Even this biographical snippet must be a late revision, since Mnemosyne is said to be the mother of the Muses with Zeus, so is already a literary corruption, the first euphemism. Mnemosyne is a personification: Memory. (go to article)

Journey to
the Second Attention
(Emphasizing the Recall)

by Kris Faso

I closed my eyes and immediately recalled the Elders advice.

“Nothing might temper the spirit of a nation as much as the challenge of dealing with impossible people in positions of power.
If you face the uncertainty with impunity, you will acquire the strength to withstand
even the incomprehensible.